


The True Rap God

by SupremePuddle



Category: Les Casseurs Flowters (Band), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Crush Fetish, Foot Fetish, Foot Massage, G/T, Giant/Tiny, Giants, M/M, Macro/Micro, Orelsan - Freeform, Shrinking, Size Difference, Size Kink, The giant is a real rapper dude, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27620236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupremePuddle/pseuds/SupremePuddle
Summary: Orelsan is an amazing rapper and one special fan's ideal man. When that fan gets to participate in Orelsan's new clip, "The Ants," the boy plays the role of... the ant.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Un gros poisson dans une petite mare? Ne m’fais pas rire. T’es même pas un plancton, connard!_ ”

  
  


Micah silently mouthed the lyrics blasting in his headphones as he hurried down the street. He was almost skipping, really, just like his heart kept skipping beats the more he thought about where he was headed; the strong breeze of Paris’ autumn didn’t cool down the blush that had been burning his face since that morning.

  
  


Just a couple hours earlier, he had been woken up on his day off by an unexpected phone call. Even through the mist of slumber, he had quickly understood the man calling was a music producer, and he was announcing that Micah won a contest to act in a music clip. Usually, the dark-haired boy didn’t care for such things, but he had literally leaped out of bed when he’d heard who exactly the producer worked for: Orelsan.

  
  


Orelsan was Micah’s number one idol. Despite being what most would call “a loser,” as a stoner with a passion for anime and geeky things, Orelsan suddenly became one of France’s most influential rappers. Through his lyrics, he just _knew_ how to speak to a generation. He retained the cockiness and evocative power of traditional rap, but he added a sensitivity, cultural references and wit that nobody else could hope to match.

  
  


His latest single, “Les Fourmis” (“ _The Ants_ ”), reached the top of the charts within a week, and it became the first French song to hit a billion views on Youtube. The song was punchy and easy to dance to—it retold the one time a man thought he could look down on Orelsan just because he had a good job and money, and Orelsan tore him a new one. Micah particularly appreciated the imagery woven into reality by Orelsan—”Think you’re a big fish in a small pond? / You’re not even plankton,” and the famous refrain “You’re all ants at my feet / Without even trying, I eat hundreds of people like you for breakfast.” As usual, that song caused a fair deal of outrage and media attention from pearl clutchers, but others saw in it a subtle criticism of capitalism crushing faceless figures in the crowd, represented by the singer himself.

  
  


Micah didn’t care either way, he just enjoyed the music and its singer. Because there was no hiding it, he had a huge crush on the man.

  
  


Naturally, when a contest was made public to co-star in _The Ants_ ’ upcoming clip, Micah joined, sending a photo and resume. He didn’t actually expect to win until the fated phone call. Afterward, he’d rushed in the shower and out the door, promising he was available to start shooting that very same day!

  
  


And so there he was, standing in front of an average-looking building. If it weren’t for the record label’s name plastered above the front door, he would have assumed he was looking at a normal office building. No matter—he steeled himself and entered.

  
  


Inside, a bored-looking receptionist directed him to a chair to wait. The first hour, the boy sat straight, devoured with excitement. The next two, he was on his phone, bored out of his mind. Even listening to _The Ants_ on repeat really didn’t pump him anymore.

  
  


His heart almost leaped out of his chest when a hand landed on his shoulder.

  
  


“Micah, is that right? I am Orelsan’s producer.” The man, a stout, balding man of 50 asked him with a smile.

  
  


“Y-Yes, Yes sir, that’s me!” He quickly got to his feet, feeling anxious once again.

  
  


“Good, good,” the man said, looking at him up and down. “Yes, you’ll do. You’ll do just fine.” He started walking in a large corridor, Micah in tow. “You know that Orelsan chose you personally, right?”

  
  


“He did?! Oh, wow! I wonder what made me stand out,” Micah wondered out loud, his voice shaking with excitement. The producer snorted derisively.

  
  


“He said you have the kind of face he wants to step on. Here’s your locker, I want you in costume in ten minutes, the studio is down the hallway,” the man added, pointing at a door before casually walking off.

  
  


Left to his own devices, Micah took a look inside the room. More like the closet, really. It was barely big enough for one person to stand up inside, and it was bursting with costumes. One in particular was draped over a chair, clearly meant for Micah—he quickly put on the fancy-looking suit and fake glasses, but he decided against wearing the provided wig. His own hair was shoulder-length, black and easy to style, so he instead used some gel to replicate the wig’s look—slightly curly, with a “posh” look. Once done, the reflection he could see in the mirror was that of a man who seemed ten years older and working in middle management. Micah chuckled. Perfect, if he was to play the role he thought he was going to play. He would get to be the asshole whose ass-beating kickstarted the song!

  
  


Leaving the closet and entering the studio, the dark-haired man was greeted by an impressive view. In a room the size of a small stadium, dozens of crew members were running back and forth, manning huge cameras, directing drone-mounted Go-Pros and tending to half a dozen different décors. To his left, a true-to-life bedroom, complete with the mess you’d expect in a weed-loving teenager’s den, was sitting next to a replica of a Montmartre street. To his right, he noticed what seemed to be the same Montmartre street but at a vastly different scale—the same fire hydrant off to the side in the first décor was now five meters tall, and the curb was as tall as Micah himself. Another set, off the one side, seemed to be imitating the emptiness of outer space, and a volleyball-sized model of the Earth was suspended by a thread in mid-air.

  
  


But the centerpiece is what fascinated Micah most. It seemed to be all of Paris, including the Eiffel Tower, reproduced with an absurd level of detail, down to each small alley and cul de sac. The tallest buildings barely reached one’s waist, and only on the main Haussmannian boulevards could any human actually stand in the model city. It was breathtaking. Several employees were at work on it, but all were suspended through a system of ropes and pulleys so they wouldn’t disturb the buildings; if most of the workers were adding details to the already impressive scene, a couple had handheld cameras and seemed to be recording footage from the point of view of the imaginary inhabitants of that fantasy city.

  
  


And there, far in the back of the Paris model, one employee was carrying was looked like… a hamster cage? There seemed to be human-shaped figures inside, Micah noticed, but they were inadequately tiny. Even a kid could hold a dozen of those in the palm of his hand without trouble. The employee opened the cage and poured the figurines down into the tiny city. Micah squinted and took a few steps forward—were those figurines _moving_ and _waving their arms_ while falling down?—but his view was suddenly obstructed as the producer stepped into view.

  
  


“You look the part, kid! Good job!” he said.

  
  


“Oh, er… t-thank you, sir,” Micah replied. He tried to give another look to the figurines, but the cage was sitting empty in the employee’s hands, now.

  
  


“I figured you wanted to meet the star, eh? Just gotta sign your contract to get that thing out of the way, then we can go see Orelsan,” he added suddenly while pulling out an impressively stout stack of documents.

  
  


“Wait, really?” Micah, feeling a bit overwhelmed, started looking at the table of contents—noting a rather large section named “Waving responsibilities in case of injuries or death”—but he was quickly interrupted when the other man’s hand forcefully swiped through several pages. “Just sign here and let’s get on with it,” the produced said with hurry. Not willing to cause troubles, the boy just signed; a second later, the contract was ripped out of his hands and shoved down a folder.

  
  


“Good, good! Now, come with me.” The older man grabbed Micah’s wrist and pulled him away, parting the hustle and bustle of the crowd like a discount Moses. He led him to a secluded corner, where a familiar man was leaning against the wall.

  
  


Micah’s leaped as he got his first real look at Orelsan. Like in his clips, the rapper had a well-built body, a chiseled face and sparse facial hair. He was sporting a grey, featureless hoodie, baggy old jeans and ratty skater shoes—they were bulky and would have appeared expensive before wear and tear made them look just worn and well-loved. His shoulder-length brown hair was partially concealed by a reverse flat-brimmed cap, appearing wavy through the front hole and behind the ears. He was exactly as Micah had imagined him, his body language as confident and lazy as ever, and every bit as handsome. From a few feet away, Micah could smell a whiff of pine perfume coming from him.

  
  


“Aurélien, meet your co-star, Micah,” the producer said, pushing the awed young man before disappearing back into the crowd, barking orders at an intern.

  
  


“Er, hey…” Micah said, awkwardly waving. Orelsan didn’t react right away, swiping a few times on his phone before giving him a bored look. The musician’s eyes scanned him up and down several times, and an insolent smile appeared, growing the more he looked at him—making Micah’s heart nearly leap out of his chest.

  
  


“Oh, you’ll be a fun one. Gringe needs to see this.” Orelsan laughed and wrapped an arm around Micah’s shoulder, pulling him close for a selfie. The resulting image, if anyone were to ask Micah for his opinion, wasn’t the best; Orel looked great, almost grinning, but Micah himself was red in the face and half-blinking. As Orelsan uploaded it to Snapchat and started typing, the picture became partially covered by the caption: “My new tiny bitch,” followed by an eggplant and a sweating emoji. “Tiny bitch” was maybe a bit over-the-top, but Micah didn’t want to ruin the moment, so he kept quiet as the picture was sent to Gringe, Orelsan’s best friend and habitual co-star.

“So, er, I was told I would be playing a role here, but I wasn’t actually handed a script,” Micah started saying. He realized his whole body was tense, belly held in, neck stiff from trying to keep his head straight. He looked particularly out of place, he realized, next to Orelsan’s slumped shoulders and easygoing stance.

  
  


In lieu of an answer, the rapper snorted derisively and indicated the fake bedroom set with his head. He walked to it without a word, his starstruck groupie in tow, before plopping down heavily on the old couch and kicking up his shoes on the coffee table. Worried to assume familiarity, Micah remained motionless, just staring at the empty cushion next to the star.

  
  


“The hell you doing, dude? Sit down.”

  
  


Micah promptly obeyed; his ass landed on the edge of the cushion, his back straighter than an arrow and staring forward, afraid to offend in any way. A laugh to his right made him look at Orelsan—he was exuding passive dominance like nobody else. “Relax,” he said, grabbing Micah’s shoulder and forcing him to sit all the way into the couch. Then, he grabbed rolling paper, tobacco and a dark resin and started rolling.

  
  


The next few minutes went by in superficial conversation, which allowed the fan to slightly relax, to the point he was feeling far more at ease when Orelsan presented him the thing he just finished rolling: a massive blunt.

  
  


“Ever smoked?” he asked. And when Micah shook his head with some degree of embarrassment. “No worries, dude. You just inhale, it’s pretty darn easy. Look.” He brought the joint to his lips, lit it and took a long drag. He then released smoke through both his mouth and nose, smiling playfully. “Your turn.”

  
  


Micah’s first thought, upon putting the joint in his mouth, was that it was an indirect kiss, which sent his heart into overdrive. The second was that it didn’t have much of an effect. He took a drag and swirled the smoke in his mouth before blowing it out.

  
  


“Not like that. You need to pull the smoke into your throat. When you inhale, pretend you’re struggling for air and pull it all down, like you’ve just run a marathon,” Orelsan explained.

  
  


So he did, then. The second drag didn’t just stop atop Micah’s tongue, but it traveled down his throat, and he definitely felt the difference. Suddenly, it was like someone was gently pressing down on his brain, making his body heavier, and there was a weird prickling behind his eyes. He blew it out and blinked a few times, feeling odd.

  
  


“Take another.”

  
  


He obeyed. The second drag was more daring than the first, and the effect was significantly stronger. Without even noticing the change, Micah was suddenly fully clumped all the way into the couch, entirely relaxed—only his eyes were feeling uncomfortably sensitive and his throat somewhat raw. The lights were stretching unnaturally all around him and sound was partly garbled. He coughed lightly.

  
  


“Another,” Orelsan said somewhere next to him.

  
  


Micah stared at the man’s face, feeling infatuation beyond even his usual. Orelsan was so gorgeous, effortlessly exciting. It wasn’t a dream, he repeatedly thought to himself—it was becoming hard to think and hold onto a thought.

  
  


He didn’t mean to obey, but he found himself in the middle of another drag somehow. He wanted to please, so he completed it.

  
  


It was hard to even remember what the hell he was doing there, on the same couch as Orelsan.

  
  


“So, you’re gonna lick my feet, uh?” Orelsan said, cutting through the pot mist that shrouded Micah’s mind.

  
  


“Lick your… er, wha…?” He stuttered.

  
  


“My feet. You’re gonna lick them in the clip. It’s in your contract, dude. You’re into that shit, right?” Orelsan was smiling genially while saying that. Everything was still swirling, and the desire to please his idol was stronger than everything, so Micah nodded. It wasn’t a lie. It made Orelsan burst into the most adorable laugh.

  
  


“I fuckin’ knew it. Say, wanna do it like right now? Practice?”

  
  


It took a while for Micah to understand what was being said. Orelsan repeated himself and almost pushed him off the couch before he realized he was being asked to lick Orelsan’s feet. When had he tripped into one of his recurrent fantasies? Micah couldn’t quite tell what was real anymore as he stumbled his way to the other side of the coffee table, atop which the star’s shoes were resting.

  
  


His consciousness lapsed for an instant, because the next thing he knew, he was kneeling, hunched over, his hands wrapped around one of Orelsan’s vastly oversized skater shoes. The material was rough under his fingers as he tugged, pulling the shoe off.

  
  


The rest of the world was still too garbled for Micah to make any sense of it, but he could see the outline of Orelsan’s foot in the form-fitting, white and featureless sock. He could see every detail of it, in fact, as if all his senses had been dimmed to focus entirely on this one foot—the elegant curves of the toes, the faint black coloration from walking around, the “pores” that let the fabric breathe. Micah could also feel Orelsan chuckling and recording a video of Micah on his phone. He didn’t care. His entire being was focused on the socked foot, and nothing else mattered.

  
  


Greedily, he peeled off the bottom of the sock and stopped for a second in shock. Seeing the bare skin of Orelsan’s sole was like a punch to the gut. He ran both his thumbs on the now exposed heel, feeling both his heart and dick pulsating. The skin was rough, rugged, the skin of a more mature man; he looked so much like a lazy teenager that it could be hard to remember Orelsan was an adult man. A man who knew what he wanted, and he wanted Micah to lick his feet. The thought was driving the boy crazy.

  
  


Instead of peeling off the sock the rest of the way, he kept his thumbs against the skin and, in an attempt at a massage, he slid them upwards. The fabric of the sock caught into the gap of Micah’s fingers, forced up slowly as Micah explored the foot with his touch. The sole was getting undressed at a snail’s pace, but he discovered every detail of it, every nook and cranny, every wrinkle, with his fingers first, his senses hungering for more input to process.

  
  


His fingers met the vast plains of soft, squishy flesh Micah recognized as the ball of the foot. Almost without trying, his thumbs digged into the skin, it was so plump they just sank into it. The fingers glided farther up, descending the slopes leading to the underside of the toes. It was slightly calloused, intensely manly. There were so many lines in the skin, natural folds to touch and map out.

  
  


Finally, the rest of the sock was off, revealing a perfectly shaped foot, with slender toes and a thicker sole. A simple look at Orelsan’s delighted face—he still had his phone aimed at his feet—comforted Micah as he brought his face closer to the sole. Closer still. He felt the tip of his nose touch the skin. Even closer.

  
  


Micah ended up with his nose pinched between the first and second toe, the rest of the sole caressing his entire face. He took many long, passionate breaths, inhaling all he could, bathing himself in the grandeur of the situation. He landed shy, tender kisses on the soft ball of the sole, then timidly poked his tongue out.

  
  


First, he gave small licks to the skin directly in front of his lips, but before long he was placing his tongue at the heel and licking all the way up, discovering every inch of the toes—and between them—with his taste buds. He couldn’t put a name on what it tasted like, but he knew he wanted more. So much more. He wanted to absorb every molecule of flavor off his idol’s sole. His entire tongue was out, greedily caking Orelsan’s foot with saliva. For Micah, that was akin to making love—it was a deeply intimate, almost religious experience.

  
  


… which was why he leaped backwards, even letting go of the foot of his dreams, when he opened his eyes and noticed dozens of people staring at him, as well as several rolling cameras.

  
  


“Wha-What?!” he asked, out of breath as if he had run a marathon, as he separated himself from the sole he was worshipping, cheeks burning. Then it came back to his mind, through the slowly dissipating mist of weed. They were never in private, they were surrounded by the entire film crew because they were on the damn set! And they were recording it all!

  
  


“What’s wrong, kiddo?” said harshly the producer, who was operating a large camera aimed at the foot with a full zoom, no doubt taking extremely close shots of Micah’s tongue lapping the soles—a horrifying thought that left Micah a trembling mess. Orelsan reacted instead.

  
  


“We had enough footage and you could have stopped licking a while back, dude, but I like a passionate guy! Keep it up and I might just keep you at my feet forever,” he added with a barking, harsh-sounding laugh.

  
  


“I-I’m sorry... I need some water,” Micah mumbled as he walked away quickly, out of the circle of eyes fixated on him. Once he pushed past the film crew, he saw them, behind him, breaking ranks and going back to their activities. Micah walked in search of a water fountain, still a flustered, shaking mess—he couldn’t decide if that was the best or the worst thing that ever happened to him, and he just wanted to splash water all over his face to dissipate the high. 

  
  


After a quick trip to the bathroom, where he ran his head under the tap, he felt almost back to normal. The world was still fuzzy and his mind was still buzzing, but he could function. Thankfully, he thought, as an assistant—or was he an intern? He couldn’t be any older than Micah himself—was waiting for him just outside the bathroom.

  
  


“The name’s Tom!” The blonde assistant said with a genuine smile adorning his round, amenable face. “I will be working for you today, please consider me your personal assistant!”

  
  


“Hmm… hi?” Micah attempted. He recognized the boy as one of the faces in the crowd seeing him humiliate himself at Orelsan’s feet—he instinctively stared down, feeling the burn of shame reaching his cheeks again.

  
  


“Is something wrong?” Tom asked on a concerned tone, bending over to look at Micah’s face. Micah shook his head slightly, averting his eyes again, followed by an awkward silence.

  
  


“You really shouldn’t worry about that!” exclaimed Tom. Micah risked a look at him—his cheeks had a faint shade of red and he seemed just as embarrassed. “Please don’t feel bad about licking Orelsan’s feet. You’re not the only one, you know? I often do… I-I mean, everyone here did it at some point. It’s sort of a rite of passage to work here…”

  
  


Micah’s brain was still straining to keep up with the world, and it took him longer than he’d be comfortable admitting to understand what was being said. “...Uh? You did…?” But, by the time he thought to ask the other man more precisions, Tom had turned his back and flagged down a makeup artist, as if nothing had been said. A woman stopped for a moment to fix up Micah’s hair and fake glasses, then Tom led him to one of the sets he had seen earlier.

  
  


Orelsan was already standing in a 1:1 replica of Montmartre street, smoking a palm-sized blunt among picturesque medieval buildings, flower pots on the windowsills and a backdrop of artificial trees. He was wearing one shoe, but his other foot was still bare. Upon seeing the star, Micah’s belly churned with excitement, arousal and fear, and Tom had to lead him by the arm onto the set. Orelsan’s lips curled up into s smirk as soon as he saw him.

  
  


“Here you are! I thought I had stepped on you for a minute, I asked an assistant to check my sole to see if you were stuck under there,” Orelsan jeered with one of his confident laughs.

  
  


He walked closer, until Micah was left staring at his chin, and he blew a thick cloud of potent-smelling smoke in the smaller man’s face. Micah scrunched up his nose but didn’t dare moving. He took in the marijuana vapor as well as Orelsan’s natural pine smell—it was crazy how everything about the man smelled so intensely of plants, he thought to himself.

  
  


“Smoke,” Orelsan said as he handed him the spliff.

  
  


Micah tried to indicate he didn’t want to, but…

  
  


“Smoke,” Orelsan repeated on a tone that didn’t allow talking back. Micah obeyed, feeling once again the grip of the drug on his brain, as well as the pressure making him want to sit down and stop moving. It became hard to think, again. Orelsan ruffled his hair out of the blue, whispering “Good boy” to him.

  
  


Micah wasn’t sure when Orelsan touched him, nor when he stopped touching him. Everything was fuzzy, like when you squint really hard—except time and space were fuzzy too, and he had some trouble focusing on more than one thing at a time. Orelsan was presently standing several meters away.

  
  


“Ready? Set! Action!” came the producer’s order.

  
  


As if earplugs had just popped out, Micah suddenly became keenly aware of the hustle and bustle around them, with countless cameras pointed at them and workers busying themselves within a arm’s length—he became keenly aware he had a hundred eyes on him at once.

  
  


Or, rather, the eyes were on Orelsan. The two of them were sharing a stage, but all the cameras were on the star—he was singing for the cameras what seemed to be the opening of “ _The Ants_.”

  
  


“The other day, I was in a bad mood, when that dude in suit told me, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ Hahaha! No, asshole, but you’re about to know my name!” were the first lyrics of the rap, and he could hear the—intimately familiar—words live. It felt surreal.

  
  


Orelsan repeated the same few verses many times, each time talking to a different camera, or with a different pose, swinging his arms in a different way…

  
  


But when the singer made his way towards Micah, followed by cameras, he wasn’t quite sure what to say; that is, until he remembered his role. He was the suited asshole. He was the one kickstarting the song. So, when Orelsan was standing close to him, repeating again “when that dude in suit told me…” Micah walked into the camera’s field of view and said “Don’t you know who I am?” in the most nasal, annoying voice he could muster. A miracle, in his eyes, given how high he felt.

  
  


“Again!” the producer barked.

  
  


Orelsan grabbed Micah by the back of the neck, stabbing his cheek with a finger. “Don’t you know who I am?” he repeated on cue. They had repeated that simple scene more than a dozen times when the director said “Down! Give a spectacle to the tiny cameras, for god’s sake!”

  
  


Seeing Orelsan look down at their feet, Micah followed. He couldn’t quite tell what was there, as his vision was still quite blurry, but it was a centimeter-tall… thing… that moved? Following Orelsan’s example, although he didn’t move with nearly as much charisma and confidence, Micah said his one line for the tiny thing below a couple more times… until Orelsan’s sneaker suddenly slammed onto it, making Micah’s line derail in an expression of surprise.

  
  


“Good one, Mackenzie! I love the shocked expression!” the director said. Before Micah could correct his name, he added, “It’s in the box! Everyone, moving to the next scene!”

  
  


Micah heard Orelsan snicker and received a heavy-handed slap in the back from the star as he walked away, following the crowd of cameramen, assistants and workers turning their backs to Micah. The confused, dazzled boy tried to look at the floor where the “tiny camera” used to be, but there was only a red mark on the ground left, like spilled red wine.

  
  


“We need to move, you’re the center of the next scene,” Tom suddenly said, walking in from nowhere by his side. Although still confused and uncomfortable, Micah smiled at him. The amenable blonde was a reassuring presence here.

“I’ll help ya get ready,” Tom added, leading the way towards the model city. There, he helped Micah climb up on a metallic platform on the verge of the tiny suburbs below.

  
  


“You’re going to have a Go-Pro camera strapped to your head,” Tom explained, showing Micah a thin headband before working to put it on the boy’s head. As he clumsily installed it, Tom gave Micah a reassuring smile, making the dark-haired boy glad he had at least one ally here.

  
  


“Everything you see will be caught on tape,” Tom told him finally, snapping the last of the band in place. He took a step back and handed Micah a mirror.

  
  


The headband was so discreet it may as well not have been there, and it would easy to just edit out in post-production, he figured. The Go-Pro’s eye was just barely visible to him, but there was no doubt it worked. Peeking towards the director and productor, Micah could see several screens showing everything the camera saw—they showed crip, high-quality footage.

  
  


“Don’t fool around, kid!” the producer suddenly barked, his eyes still on the screens. Micah then realized that, by looking at the screens, his camera caused infinitely recursive images, like two mirrors staring into one another. “Go back to work, now!”

  
  


“Yes, sir!” Micah and Tom actually said in unison.

  
  


Micah was about to take a step off the metallic platform he was standing on when Tom motioned him to stay put.

  
  


“Am I not… doing a green screen scene or something?” Micah asked, garnering a wide-eyed expression of surprise from the assistant.

  
  


“Wait, you don’t know?” Tom asked, clearly shocked. “It’s in your contract, they will…” His eyes wandered just above Micah’s shoulder and his expression suddenly darkened. “... nothing. They will nothing. Ju-just stay put, okay?” Without another word, Tom took a step back, silently mouthing what looked like an apology to Micah’s drugged up mind.

  
  


Next thing Micah knew, a buzzing sound came from his left and, upon looking, what appeared to be a cannon fired a beam of light at him. He didn’t have time to move or even scream before it slammed into him, flinging him backwards.

  
  


Oddly enough, Micah’s first thought while he was airborne was that he was standing right next to the model city, so he felt sorry for the people who built it, as he would crash into it and destroy it all. Then, he noted that he was really taking a long time to land.

  
  


When Micah finally hit the ground after what felt like being flung back a dozen meters, he didn’t feel the expected prickle of rooftops from the tiny Paris underneath him. Just the hard ground.

  
  


He opened his eyes.

  
  


Then he closed them tightly, prayed that it was just a hallucination.

  
  


When he opened them again, everything was still the same.

  
  


Micah was flat on his back on what seemed to be a normal street. On each side of him, rows of houses and buildings surrounded him, filled with trees and cars... but above him, instead of the sky, there was the ceiling of the studio. The metallic platform he was on before, which couldn’t have been more than a meter in diameter, was now extending nearly as far as his eyes could see, like a silver-tainted ocean. The projectors shone a painful light on him, as if they were suddenly a hundred times brighter, and a collective breathing sound, profound and rumbling, vibrated through the air.

  
  


But the worst were the people. 

  
  


Gathering in the distance, like cumulonimbuses stalking the horizon line when driving through a flat plain, the film crew was standing there in a half-circle, looking at him.

  
  


One broke ranks and walked towards him, making Micah shriek in terror. It was Orelsan. The star walked a few steps until he was standing on top of the metallic platform, and he crouched. He was so close that the tips of his bent knees were vertically above Micah, who found himself engulfed in his shade.

“What character did you imagine you’d play in the clip of ‘The Ants,’ dude?” he sniggered. “You’re playing the ant.”


	2. Godzilla

“What character did you imagine you’d play in the clip of ‘The Ants,’ dude?” Orelsan sniggered. “You’re playing the ant.” He flashed Micah a smile and indicated the model city behind him with his chin. “Go on, explore.”

  
  


Gulping in horror, mesmerized, Micah rolled over and pushed himself up. Ahead of him, the model city looked almost genuine. Strokes of paint perfectly mimicked a real road, while the fake trees were all bursting into fake leaves.

  
  


Micah took a few tentative steps in the street ahead of him. With a closer look, one could tell that the place wasn’t real. Although a human eye couldn't tell the difference normally, his new point of view made it crystal clear. The walls of the buildings lacked in any cracks or graffiti, and they had a shine to them. The roads felt real under his feet until he noticed how clean and free of blemishes they were. It was all one gigantic sham.

  
  


As he kept walking forward, deeper into the model city, he could feel the overbearing presence of Orelsan behind him, waiting at the edge of the area. But to his eyes, it wasn’t much different from the actual Paris he lived in. He had been dropped somewhere around Nation, near a large roundabout he was very familiar with. If he squinted, he could absolutely mistake this place for the real deal. The only striking difference was the lack of… everything. He was the only living being in that tiny city… or so he thought.

  
  


Shuffling out of a narrow alley, a small man entered Micah’s field of view. The man’s face, half-hidden by a bushy beard, looked shocked when he noticed Micah looking down at him. The man wasn’t proportioned like a dwarf, yet he couldn’t have been more than two feet tall, barely reaching Micah’s thighs, and he carried a handheld camera recorder.

  
  


“Hey, w-what’s going on? Who are you?” Micah pleaded, hoping the newcomer could give some answers.

  
  


The man looked like he was about to run away, but he froze and seemingly hesitated. “Name’s Randall, kid. You shouldn’t be talking to the camera crew…”

  
  


“The wha- Wait, why are we so small? What the hell happened to me?”

  
  


“You… You did read your contract, right, kid?” Seeing Micah’s puzzled expression, he sighed. “That machine they have? It shrinks people.. It’s in the contract! You agreed to be shrunk on stage.”

  
  


“WHAT?! So, you were shrunk too? Is that why you’re…” Micah brought two fingers together, indicating how small his interlocutor was. Behind Randall, he noticed another man of the same size disappear in a bush.

  
  


“Yeah, what else? But hey, if you didn’t know you would be shrunk, then... what did think the $10 million payment was for? For your acting skills?”

  
  


“What 10 million?” Micah asked, confused.

  
  


“Wait… are you serious?” the man looked downright horrified. “You let yourself be shrunk for FREE?! All of us cameramen, we’re here because they pay an insane amount of money to our families! They… they make you sign a guarantee they won’t be held responsible if you’re hurt or, er, or killed, while you’re shrunk you for the clip.” Micah was already overcome with dread when the man added, in a lower voice. “This city is a death trap, man. None of us is ever growing back.” He nodded towards Micah, like offering his condolences before disappearing back into an alley with the rest of the tiny camera crew.

  
  


Like on cue, a powerful rumbling sound split Micah ears, then another, and another—all followed by thunderous noises, like rocks raining from the sky. Cranking his neck to look behind and up, he was greeted by the most beautiful and terrifying sight he could imagine. Standing casually in the middle of the city, not three blocks away from Micah—about one step’s length for a normal-sized person—Orelsan was staring down at him from his full height, with a roguish grin and his hands in his hoodie’s belly pocket.

  
  


If there were planes in this absurd world, they would crash into Orelsan’s forehead, Micah figured. And if there had been people, they would be dead, he realized. He tried not to think about the fact there were probably people like Randall in the streets that were just crushed. To reach him, Orelsan had stepped all over the model city. Looking in the distance, in-between buildings, Micah could see part of the giant’s bulky, ratty sneaker shoe. It was resting on a pile of scarily realistic rubble, just where several buildings stood a few seconds earlier. Behind it, a wave of destruction was left in Orelsan’s path.

  
  


“How do you like it, in here?” Orelsan asked.

  
  


Micah tried to reply despite his astonishment, but the giant musician waved his attempt away and lit himself a blunt.

  
  


“No need to talk, little dude. puff. You’re too small, I can’t fucking hear you,” Orelsan added. “Remember the camera on your head? You’re here to take some good shots. In this clip, I’m playing the great and powerful giant, and you’re the ant. Try to survive, because I’m not steppin’ outta my way for your ass. Got it? Ready? Go.”

  
  


Without giving Micah a second to react, he reached down and tore off his right shoe, which he tossed somewhere in the city—it collided with a skyscraper, which immediately collapsed. He then raised his bare foot high the sky, straight above Micah’s head.

  
  


Micah wasn’t sure what qualified as a “good shot,” but he could guess that what was unfolding before his eyes was one. It was impossible to imagine the pressure given by a giant unless you were standing near one; the sheer volume they occupied, the way their proportions seemed almost distorted by the vast distances they covered, even the way air seemed to be thinner around them, like their mere presence exhausted the natural resources of an area. But even for the camera, which couldn’t capture all these feelings, the scene was awe-inspiring: Hovering over the roofs of Paris, as long as a yacht and twice as wide, was the peach-tinted sole of the world’s most beautiful man. It cast a shadow over the whole avenue, making Micah truly feel like an insect.

  
  


The sole started descending extremely slowly. The Haussmannian boulevard he was standing in was one of the city’s largest, over 100 feet wide, but the giant foot was easily twice as long. Micah assumed that it would drape over the building surrounding the street and remain in the air, like a skin canopy… but his hopes were dashed when the sole did touch the roofs. Its descent wasn’t stopped or even slowed. It kept moving down at a glacial pace was the top of the tall buildings on both sides of Micah crumbled effortlessly.

  
  


The shrunken boy’s heart was beating at a million miles a minute. His legs were like putty; he wanted to run away but he had been given the task to film good shots with his forehead camera, and the shots wouldn’t get any better than that. There were only 6 stories left for the sole to crush before it reached the ground and Micah. By now, his field of view was entirely comprised of Orelsan’s foot, and he could see every details, every crease… and even a few horrifying red stains littering the skin.

  
  


Five stories. Micah blinked quickly, feeling a powerful nauseous feeling settling behind his nose.

  
  


“I’m taking care of the recording. Run.”

  
  


Four stories. “What?” He looked besides himself and saw Randall standing there, a severe expression on his face and his camera pointed skyward. “You have a chance to survive, son. Run now. Live on for me, too,” he said.

  
  


Three stories. Micah hesitated a second before bolting towards the patch of projector light he could see in the distance. Above him, the sole was so close it could be mistaken for the tall ceiling of an amphitheater.

  
  


Two stories. Micah’s run turned into a mad dash for the last few meters. Instead of music, he was listening to the deafening rumble of the giant toes bulldozing through the buildings around him as he finally emerged out of the shade. In the last moments, the thick skin was close to him that Micah might have been able to touch it by reaching up. He ran another second for good measure before looking back.

  
  


When he had left him, Randall was resolutely looking up at the wall of sole to record the shot for the clip, but the tiny man was now staring at Micah. He hadn’t moved, however, and there was no way he could run out of the zone of impact before it was too late. He didn’t even try.

  
  


In his last moments, Randall addressed to Micah what looked like a military salute. He was still standing straight, unflinching, when the foot became flush with the ground in one sonorous _stomp_. The displaced air sent Micah flying back, hurling into a car. But he was still alive.

  
  


The air was torn apart by thunderous whistling.

  
  


“Good job, little dude!” Orelsan intoned while removing his foot at dizzying speed—showing that his slow stomp was just an act… a game. “I guess we don’t need to buy a replacement, eh? The director would have been mad if we had to delay shooting again, haha. Come.”

  
  


Orelsan shifted his weight on his bare foot as he kneeled, which cracked the pavement underneath. Through, when he put his hand down on the road, palm up and waiting for Micah, it was gentle enough to avoid damaging anything further.

  
  


“Hope on, lil’ friend. You’re gonna like the next one,” Orelsan promised with an untrustworthy snort of laughter at the end. His breath reeked of weed and his eyes were unfocused while he smiled a bit aimlessly. He clearly wasn’t taking any of this seriously.

  
  


Micah’s heart ached for Randall, but he had made a promise to survive. A quick look around him showed that it would be pointless to run away—the buildings crumbled like paper when stepped on and the colossus could cross in one step more than a tiny person could cross in fifty. Obeying was his best shot, so he did.

  
  


Even laying flat on its back, the giant hand was several times as tall as Micah. The tiny sank his fingers in the soft side of it and scaled the hand like it was a rock-climbing wall. Once on top, he let himself roll to the center of it, the valleys of skin and wrinkles being like playground slides to someone his size.

  
  


When Orelsan got up, the air pressure on Micah shot up, and he was squeezed against the floor of skin under him until the giant was standing up again in the middle of the tiny city.

  
  


“And now, the fun part~” Orelsan said with a grin that made Micah shudder.

  
  


Soon, the mountains and canyons of the giant palm started shifting and raising high in the air all around the shrunken boy, and he realized that the hand was curling onto itself, wrapping around Micah’s helpless form. Orelsan closed his fist with him in the middle, he realized, and he could vaguely tell he was tilted back, although the flesh compressing him on all sides kept him in place.

  
  


“Here we go, little buddy,” came the godly thunder, followed by the characteristic sound of a cigarette drag.

  
  


The only source of light was suddenly obscured, as a pair of gargantuan lips appeared into the opening between Orelsan’s fingers—-and it blew smoke, enough to create a thick mist billowing all around Micah. The tiny sputtered, cried and tried to beg, but the overpowering scent of cannabis entered him by every pore, kicking him down with ease.

  
  


It was like he was falling without moving, everything turning and swiveling around him. Where was he? Why? How? It was hard to remember anything. Why was he being squeezed between two soft walls? He suddenly realized it was hard to think. Thinking felt so superfluous. Hard. Slow. Confusing...

  
  


“Ah… ga… wha…” he tried to speak, but he was too high to function.

  
  


He wouldn’t have been able to tell if ten hours or ten minutes passed, everything was a maelstrom of light and sounds, and his consciousness kept dipping down; but the first thing he saw when his mind started to recover was a carpeted floor that stretched to the horizon. The horizon was the couch where Micah and Orelsan were sitting earlier, now the size of a mountain range. Carpet fibers were stretching all around Micah, making it hard to move or see far, but one thing he could see unobstructed was Orelsan. The artist was standing several meters away, his bare feet digging into the carpet while he faced the cameras and sang.

  
  


The sound was so overpowering that he almost sounded like a thunderstorm, but Micah could recognize some lyrics if he focused.

  
  


“At my feet you are all ants!” he rapped.

  
  


On the beat of “Tiny guys like you,” the next verse, the colossus took one step towards Micah, then another, with deliberate movements for the eyes of the numerous cameras.

  
  


The scene in front of him somehow reminded him of something he had seen before—or had he?—when he had visited a Imax cinema; the screen had been disproportionate and the sound system that surrounded the whole room made every audio effect grandiose.

  
  


Grandiose was the right word for what he was witnessing. The giant’s bare feet were walking towards him, filling his entire field of view—the tiny’s deformed perspective gave them unnatural proportions, almost as if seen through a fisheye lens, highlighting every detail of each fold of skin. Micah could swear he heard something akin to wind swirling around the legs while they moved, and each thump of the soles against the floor was like the world’s greatest Imax sound system, engulfing the tiny in deafening noises. The air was filled with a potent smell of pine, hitting Micah in waves that almost made him sick.

  
  


Orelsan came to a stop a stride length away from Micah. He could step on him, or over his head, with no issues, but he chose to just remain motionless for a minute, giving his tiny buddy a chance to admire him. And admire he did. The mere sight of Orelsan, seen from the ground and with no obstacles obstructive the view, brought Micah to his knees. The majesty of it was beyond what his confused brain could tolerate. Randall’s last moments flickered in and out of his mind in an instant; as soon as the thought was gone, Micah couldn’t even remember ever having it.

  
  


Worshipping sounded good, just about now, cameras or not. How could anyone witness such a sight and not want—no, need—to worship? Orelsan was clearly divine in nature.

  
  


So, when Orelsan sat where he stood, laying his feet on their sides so Micah would be kneeling just between his two exposed soles, the tiny ran towards one and latched himself onto it. Pressing his body against the rough, rugged skin with utter desperation, Micah kneaded it with his hands while slowly grinding the rest of himself against the beige wall.

  
  


_Click_.

  
  


A flash of bright white light blinded him for an instant.

  
  


“Oh god, Gringe will be soooo jealous! He might even come here to snatch you away, haha!” Orelsan’s booming voice shook Micah as he laughed. Then, he looked away from his phone and straight at his feet. “Well, what are you waiting for? Lick. You were so good at it, before!”

  
  


So he did. While desperately rubbing his whole body against thick leathery wall before him, Micah lapped up like an obedient dog—he really wasn’t much more than that. His clouded mind, struggling with the effect of the tornado of weed he just withheld, could only think about the present action..

  
  


Each movement of his tongue allowed him to explore the star’s sole a bit further, a bit deeper. He could taste the individual specks of dust and dirt that accumulated there from walking barefoot, and he could feel each and every pore of the skin, driving home just how small… how insignificant he was. He licked with renewed intensity. He didn’t know if he wanted to absorb as much of Orelsan as possible, or if he wanted to be absorbed into him, but he was straddling the line with feverish passion, almost melting his skin into Orelsan’s.

  
  


Worshipping.

  
  


That was all he could think about. He was febrile, trembling violently as waves upon waves upon waves of pleasure were shooting through his body as he gave himself up to his god. Was it fear, or sexual pleasure… or just sound?

  
  


He realized after a time he couldn’t guess that Orelsan had resumed singing the intimately familiar tune. Every camera must be rolling, capturing him in all his glory, Micah thought, with a bug barely visible on his sole. Or…

  
  


Turning his head, the tiny boy was almost shocked—or as shocked as he could be in that state—to see the lens of a camera, bigger than he was, trained directly on him. The cameraman was clearly laying on his belly, with the camera partially pressed against the toes of the foot Micah was busy worshipping, just a few inches away from him. A close up of Micah must be in the foreground, with Orelsan’s sole and his giant face in the background, he realized.

  
  


But did it matter…?

  
  


As if his head was lassoed in, a physical, unstoppable force pulled Micah back towards the sole. He had stopped licking for an instant, and it was an instant too much—his entire body cried in anguished at the idea he wasn’t obeying. Far above, Orelsan was singing “You think you’re a big fish in a small pond? You’re not even plankton, asshole!” Micah couldn’t debate with that. He resumed licking.

  
  


The camera was blocking off the distant vales and mounds that were the toes and curves of Orelsan’s foot. Desperate to feel more of the foot, Micah resolved to go up instead. Climbing the sole with ease by grabbing folds of skin, he made his way up, followed by the eye of the camera, without ever stopping licking. Even when he was what felt like several meters off the ground, kept safe only by wrinkles of the godly skin, he kept it up, interspersing licks with sloppy kisses, as if he were smooching a stranger, drunk, outside a nightclub. He was leaving a trail of saliva going up, symbol of his devotion, but Orelsan’s foot remained utterly immobile, as if he didn’t even feel Micah’s efforts.

  
  


Even as his own tongue started feeling dry and painful, Micah didn’t stop licking. He didn’t even stop when two humongous fingers landed on both sides of him, plucking him off the sole and bringing up high in the air to Orelsan’s face—he was disoriented and high in more ways than one, but he kept licking the air by reflex.

  
  


Only when he was face to face with the rapper’s grinning mug, letting him admire his round and masculine features, his sparse beard and appealing lips, that Micah realized what was happening. He was still licking the air, though, until the lips in front of him parted. The sound that came out was overpowering, seeping through his body, making his body vibrate painfully.

  
  


“Stop,” Orelsan ordered.

  
  


Micah obeyed.

  
  


“Good boy.”

  
  


Disheveled by the mere breathing of the titan, Micah was limp between his fingers, just staring up in awe. The massive lips in front of him first stretched in a devious smile then parted just slightly, giving him a glimpse of the pink tongue and strands of saliva beyond… and the fingers holding Micah slowly moved forward towards the lips.

  
  


“Okay,” the producer’s voice resonated through his megaphone, suddenly interrupting the movement—and making Orelsan look vaguely upset, almost pouting. “In the next scene, the little pest gets crushed underfoot. I want close-ups, guys. I want to see everyone’s facial expressions, I want drama! We only got one shot!”

  
  


As the tiny’s death sentence was pronounced, Orelsan’s eyes lit up. He dropped his tiny co-star on the floor in front of him and got to his feet.

  
  


Micah didn’t try to run, he was just in too bad a shape; he simply stayed still, sprawled on his back, eyes wide open. Orelsan’s hands were in his pockets, face neutral bar the smile on the corner of his lips, his shoulders slouched like those of a teenager dragging his feet on his way to detention. And his foot… His foot was all Micah could see.

  
  


Orelsan had raised his foot slightly, no higher than his calf, as if not even estimating Micah was worth properly stamping out. But to the tiny, the gargantuan sole loomed high, obscuring most of the light pouring onto the scene, appearing almost black in the shade it cast. Orelsan was lazily holding it still in the air above his co-star’s body, no doubt waiting for cameras to capture every angle of the scene—that gave Micah ample time to see every detail of it. He wanted to beg or cry or run, but he just couldn’t. All he could think about was the happiness these feet had brought to him, and how much of himself he had given to them, despite the cameras, the pain and the humiliation. In a way, being killed by them felt appropriate.

  
  


Then, without warning, it violently slammed down.

  
  


“Bye, little buddy,” Orelsan spoke to the top of his foot, just barely feeling the squirming form of Micah underneath. Then, he raised his heel in the air and twisted, grinding his bare foot against the floor like he was ridding the world of a cigarette butt.

“Okay, we’re done here! Excellent job, everyone! Orel, go take some rest, spare your voice, you sang enough today.” The words of the producers were what the entire team was waiting to hear. Cheers exploded and pats landed on many backs, congratulating each other.

  
  


“Yeah, good job guys!” Orelsan exclaimed. “We need to do another soon, hahaha!”

  
  


With a genial laugh, he grabbed the jar an assistant was handing him—there were a handful of tiny dudes left inside—and took a swig. He emptied it into his mouth in one go, scarfing down the last of the “assistants” who had survived thus far. Then, without much more thought, and without even checking his foot for the splatter of blood he expected there, Orelsan just casually walked back to his dressing room, a smile plastered on his lips.

  
  


Underneath him, encased tightly in the supple skin of his sole and unnoticed, Micah was still alive.

  
  


The tiny boy’s entire body felt like it was on fire, and he sputtered helplessly to try and breathe. It was like a mountain had fallen on him, and the pressure threatened to pop him like a grape with each step; but he was trapped, glued to the sole and unable to move. Pain in his right shoulder indicated something was very wrong—and, indeed, his arm was bent at an impossible angle. Tears were flowing freely, and he cursed the day when he applied to that damned contest.

  
  


.... then, Orelsan’s foot slammed on the ground, nearly flattening its unwitting passenger and knocking all wind and energy out of him, before he was propelled in the air at absurd speed with the next step.

  
  


Micah was a mangled, bloody mess when Orelsan reached his room. That was the last thing he knew before the rapper plopped down on his couch, lighted a blunt and grabbed a discarded pair of socks.

  
  


Nobody could hear Micah’s last screams as the fabric of the sock was pulled over him, closing a deadly trap on him and plunging him in darkness.

  
  


Darkness imbued with a sickening scent of pine.

  
  


—————————————

  
  


“ _You’re working your ass off_

_To fatten up your wife’s_

_You struggle, you struggle, you struggle_

_She will take the kids when she leaves you anyway_

_She is already fucking her yoga teacher._

_With the alimony, do you know what she'll do?_

_She'll buy tickets to see me on stage._

_It's a fact, nobody cares about you._

_Your life is commute, work, sleep._

_Mine is lazy mornings, weed, songs and friends._

_Yet even your mom would disown you for one night with me!_

_AH!_ ”

  
  


The cocky lyrics of “ _The Ants_ ” were pouring out of the audio system as the TV screen was showing Micah’s trials. The same size as Orelsan as first, clad in his businessman-like outfit, Micah was shown licking a foot as large as his head—several angles were shown, going as far as showing the intricate details of the tongue molding itself around the skin, glistening as it hungrily lapped up the sole. To drive home the man’s humiliation, the worship was interspersed with flashing bits of Micah’s tiny self doing the same to a patch of skin belonging to a sole a hundred times his size.

  
  


A fair bit of the clip, whose final version was out and already topping the charts, showed close-ups of Micah; Orelsan was a massive presence in the background, his face often blurred by the distance. The screen rumbled when he walked, the tiny set crumbled effortlessly beneath his feet, and viewers could feel in their guts the power exuding from him.

  
  


Micah would have turned the TV off if he could.

  
  


Micah was the first one to be surprised to still be alive after everything he had gone through. He couldn’t tell how long he had remained glued to the underside of Orelsan’s foot, but he guessed two days, perhaps three. The rapper had just kept going through his routine, not noticing him once, constantly walking over him, until Tom had been ordered to lick his feet—after everything, it really wasn’t surprising it was the kind of crap the star pulled habitually. The blonde assistant had found Micah there, caked in dried blood and grime, and had gently scraped him off the singer’s sole; Tom had subsequently brought him to management, who grew him back up after confirming he wouldn’t break his NDA. At that point, Micah didn’t want a legal battle or media-fueled scandal, he just wanted out.

  
  


But the clip was inescapable. The TV rewinded to show a normal-sized Micah licking the sole in front of him. Again, and again, and again.

  
  


“Paul, you fucker, you stop that now!” Micah shouted angrily at his brother. The brunette, who was monopolizing the TV remote, just laughed even harder at his brother’s apparent anger.

  
  


“What’s wrong, foot slut?” Paul mocked him before launching in another round of hysterical laughter after freezing the clip on a particularly embarrassing frame.

  
  


Micah would have loved to take the remote by force or just smack his dumb brother across the face, but he was bedbound, his right arm in a cast, and just walking was hell on his damaged spine. His only company was his stupid brother, who, like the rest of the world, was convinced the clip was mostly CGI, with the exception of the same-size, foot worship scene. Paul had been taunting and mocking him ever since. Every day had become a litany of “foot slut,” both in person from Paul and online from… basically everyone. Within hours of the clip’s release, #footslut was trending on Twitter, and thousands of people were harassing Micah in private messages with homophobic slurs. He had to delete all forms of social media.

  
  


“Hmmm, yeeees~~~ Orelsan, put your delicioooouuus foot in my mouuuuth~ _Slurp slurp slurp_ ,” Paul imitated in a shrill voice, making wet noises and pretending to lick an invisible foot in front of him. “Oh~ I love you so much Orelsaaaaan, walk on meee~ Hahahahaha!”

  
  


“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Micah blew up and threw his bedside lamp at Paul’s face with his working arm.

  
  


The brunette casually dodged the poorly thrown item and headed to the kitchen, thankfully leaving the TV frozen. With the exception of Paul’s laughter reaching through the wall, Micah was enjoying a rare moment of quiet. Not hearing “ _The Ants_ ” on a loop was a bliss, at that point. As he tried to relax, he received a text.

  
  


From Orelsan.

  
  


He almost tossed his phone across the room with a shriek—but the prospect of being unable to fetch it back stopped him at the last second. His fingers were shaking in terror when he opened the text.

  
  


**Orelsan** : _Hey bud! we filmin the clip of my new song ‘godhood’ its directly following ants, n ur the costar. come at the studio_ _right now_

  
  


Micah was hyperventilating as he typed what he hoped was a convincing excuse.

  
  


**Micah** : _I can’t, I’m sorry! I can’t get out of bed because of injuries. Best of luck to you, I hope you can find a replacement soon :)_

  
  


It was dripping with falsehood and lies, but Micah would do anything— _anything_ to avoid round two. The reply was almost immediate.

  
  


**Orelsan** : _Its in ur contract. if u dont show up, my ppl will go to ur place and bring u back in a matchbox. ur choice_

  
  


**Micah** : _What if I offer an alternative?_

  
  


**Orelsan** : _what kind?_

  
  


Micah’s heart was pounding. He had an idea, but it was a long shot… Frantically scrolling through the photos stored on his phone, he found the selfie he was looking for, just him and…

  
  


Trying helplessly to calm his nerves, he sent the photo to Orelsan. An excruciatingly slow minute later, he got a reply.

  
  


**Orelsan** : _I like that. deal ;)_

  
  


Then:

  
  


**Orelsan** : _send him over now_

  
  


Releasing a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, Micah felt all the pressure flee his body. He couldn’t beat up his brother, but…

  
  


“Hey, Paul?” Micah called on a singsong tone. His brother peeked out of the kitchen with an annoyed “What?”

  
  


Micah couldn’t repress a grin. “How would you feel about starring in Orelsan’s next clip~?”


End file.
